


The One Where They Go Camping

by spookywriter



Category: The Terror (2018 TV series), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camping, F/M, Humor, M/M, anyways this is the camping trip gone horribly wrong au that nobody asked for, francis is a dick, james is a fashion icon but also embarrassing, john is embarrassing, might get a little angsty depending on where things go so hang in there, with a little bit of workplace drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-04-26 00:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14390535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywriter/pseuds/spookywriter
Summary: Modern AU where instead of a failed arctic expedition it’s just a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad camping trip with the lads.





	1. The Office

It was John’s idea. If nothing else, Francis could take solace in this—John was to blame for this nightmare, and John alone.

He should have known that it would be a bloody disaster the moment he walked into the conference room. Only the two of them were there—John, lording over the half-empty room with an oblivious smile, and James sitting beside him, non-prescription glasses falling low on his nose as he took notes on a sleek laptop. He looked in vain for Graham Gore or Edward Little, as if he might find them hiding under the table or behind the massive, power-guzzling space heater that dominated the poorly heated room. No such luck. Francis was forced to take a seat across from James, busying his hands by stirring sugar into his styrofoam cup of tea.

Idly, he wondered if popping an aspirin or two for his hangover was worth facing John’s half-austere, half-pitying glare. Better not to risk it. With only James in the room, John may well go the full mile and berate him verbally. James was his lapdog, his surrogate, his protege—whatever the hell you wanted to call him—and the rules of professionalism did not always apply.

“You may be wondering, gentlemen, why I called you here,” began John gravely, steepling his hands on the tabletop.

Francis smothered a sigh. “Yes, John, get on with it, please.”

James’s eyebrows rose above the tops of the frames of his glasses in what looked more like amusement than alarm, and John shot Francis a mildly affronted glance, but neither said anything. Francis was struck by the impression that they had come to some tacit agreement about him. Allow Francis to be Francis, by all means, but, for the love of God, do not provoke him.

“I have been thinking that we, and, of course, Erebus Enterprises, may benefit from an exercise in trust and comradery. A team-building exercise, so to speak. And what better way—pardon the cliche—but to venture together into the great outdoors?”

“Camping?” asked James, half-smiling.

“Camping,” echoed John. “It will be the adventure of a lifetime, gentlemen. Three friends in the English countryside, hiking through rugged terrain by day and sleeping under the stars by night.”

“A capital idea,” said James. “I give it my stamp of approval. What do you say, Francis?”

Francis could not think of a single thing he wanted less than to spend a week with John Franklin and James Fitzjames in a godforsaken wilderness with not so much as a port-a-potty within a twenty mile radius. There was, he suspected, an alternate universe in which the three of them had attempted such an endeavor, and it likely ended with starvation, madness, and cannibalism.

“You know I’m no outdoorsman, John," he said, massaging his temples. 

John scowled. “Think of this as a golden opportunity for self-improvement, Francis. Consider it, at least. Will you seize it, or will you let it slip away?”

 

Francis was perfectly content to let it slip away, until he checked his phone that night to find a string of messages from none other than Sophia Cracroft. John Franklin’s niece, and, once, his would-be fiancee:

Sophia: please go camping with my uncle  
Sophia: francis??  
Sophia: go camping with my uncle or you will break his heart  
Sophia: if he accidentally walks off a cliff because no one is there to remind him to wear his bifocals i will be very upset with you  
Sophia: i know james will be with him but i don’t trust him  
Sophia: what if uncle john eats a poisonous berry while james is off perming his leg hair???  
Sophia: or whatever it is that he does  
Sophia: francis text me back  
Sophia: francis you old fart check your phone

He let out a huff of laughter as he scrolled through the messages, tugging off his suit jacket and untying his shoes with his free hand. Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he tapped out a response:

Francis: If I agree to go, will you say yes next time I propose?

It was an old joke, and not a particularly funny one, not after all these years. But the response came in a matter of seconds:

Sophia: thank god i thought you left your phone in your car again  
Sophia: the answer is no  
Sophia: and you know why that is so please don’t propose again ok  
Sophia: but go anyways <3 <3

Francis: OK.

Sophia: so you’ll go?

Francis: I’ll go.  
Francis: But please note that I regret this already.


	2. The Adventure of a Lifetime!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and they're off!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to get this chapter polished up and published to calm down after tonight's uh... /lit/ episode. Sorry for any errors, my mind is still reeling lol.   
> Also, thank you for all the love on chapter one! I'm glad you guys are enjoying it so far :)

And so Francis found himself in the passenger seat of James Fitzjames’s car just before dawn on a Saturday morning, watching the city give way to suburbs, and finally to rolling hills dotted with modest bungalows and the occasional grazing sheep. After spending two hours bickering over how high to set the heat and whether or not to turn the radio on and the proper following distance on a wet road (Francis prayed to the God he didn't believe in to deliver him from harm each time James slammed the brakes at a stoplight with about half a second to spare), it was a small miracle that they managed to arrive at their destination without throttling one another. 

“Congratulations, James,” said Francis, as he stumbled out of the car.“Despite the odds, you’ve managed not to kill us both.” 

“You’re more than welcome to walk the way back,” James said.

“I’ll certainly consider it.”

A muscle in James’s jaw twitched. “Please, do.”

John was, of course, late, so Francis and James waited inside the visitor center. Francis noted that it was heated and all the light fixtures seemed to be in working order, so already it was a far more pleasant establishment than their workplace. As James scrolled through his phone (Was that Instagram? The only social media Francis had was a poorly attended LinkedIn and a Facebook that he used to periodically update his relatives that he was still alive, employed, and, yes, single), Francis rifled through the brochure stand, stuffing at least two copies of each of the maps into his pockets. 

At about half-past the time they had agreed to meet, Francis glanced up to see John waving his arms wildly on the other side of the glass door. In response to Francis's bewildered expression, John gestured to the scraggly black mutt currently pressing its snout up against the glass. Of course John had brought the bloody dog, as if all this expedition needed was another member just as overeager and incessantly noisy as the other two. He groaned and went to join John outside. 

Outside the visitor center, John justified Neptune’s presence at Francis’s demand, while James lavished him with affection.

“Who’s a good boy?” asked James, scratching him vigorously between the ears as Neptune stood on his hind legs to slather James’s face in spit. “Are you a good boy?”

“You see,” said John, face crumpled in exaggerated penitence, “Jane is in America for a fundraising event, and you know, of course, that Sophia is allergic. I had been under the impression that the Peglar-Bridgens’ would be house-sitting for us, but Harry called me this morning to let me know that their flight to Florence had been cancelled last minute—for their, what is it, third, fourth, honeymoon?—and they had to move it up...”

“At what point does a trip cease to be a honeymoon and become an ordinary holiday?” asked Francis, irritated. He had met Harry and John several times while dining at the Franklin’s house and could think of nothing bad to say about either of them, which only made him more bitter about their apparently endless happiness.  

John looked taken aback. “I assume it’s a matter of perspective. Now as I was saying, I was considering calling up Cornelius Hickey, but I have noticed that whenever he house-sits for me, something valuable tends to go missing…”

“Why haven’t we fired Hickey, again?”

“And I even went so far as to contact John Irving, but he is apparently on a religious retreat in some third-world country teaching, I believe, underprivileged teens watercolor painting. So as you see, there was no option but to bring Neptune with us.”

Francis was finally forced to relent, if grudgingly. 

That said, the trip started out tolerably enough. Although Francis was forced to look at James in his startlingly short khaki shorts, an apparently useless bandanna tied around his neck—he looked like an overgrown Boy Scout—both John and James were on their best behavior. They were even polite enough to ignore the fact that Francis was obviously tipsy, and would continue to be for the remainder of the trip if he could help it, judging by the flask he not-so-inconspicuously kept in his jacket pocket. 

“We will begin with a ten-mile hike,” said John as they unloaded the gear from the trunk of John’s minivan. “And then we will camp under the stars. You will be pleased to know, James, that I,” he said, patting one of his bags with a conspiratorial glance, “have brought marshmallows.”

James grinned broadly, patting his stomach as if he was not fully aware that he was in better shape than either of the other men had ever been. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?” 

Francis was vaguely aware that there had been a so-called “Marshmallow Incident” involving James during the annual company holiday party, but he hadn’t been to any of the parties since he vomited into the punch bowl four years ago, and he made a point of not knowing the workplace gossip. 

He realized that disaster was imminent when they were about fifteen minutes along the trail, steadily climbing over the undulating land, and John suggested they sing camping songs to pass the time. 

“Capital idea,” said James. “I haven’t sung in front of anyone but my shower head since I was the lead in the school musical senior year."

John was ecstatic. “I never knew you were a singer, James. Why don’t you start us off?”

James briefly attempted to demure before making a show of relenting. “What do we all know? Ah, well let’s see…  _ ninety-nine bottles of beer on the _ —” James’s eyes fell on Francis and he stopped abruptly. He cleared his throat. “ _ Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam… _ ”

As he half-mumbled along, tripping over large stones and trudging through tall grasses, Francis wondered if he would a least be paid overtime for his torment. Most likely not. He thought fondly of the last time he had been camping, in college, with his roommate at the time, Thomas Blanky. They had smuggled in a cooler and made a drinking game out of their hike—drink every time you get smacked in the face by a branch, drink every time you get bitten or stung by something, drink every time you trip over something. The genius of the game was that the last provision came into play increasingly often as the trek went on.

By the time they broke for lunch, Francis was bleeding from several mysterious scrapes and his patience was gossamer thin. They stopped at the top of a steep hill where a rough circle of rocks made for natural chairs. Neptune sniffed around at the end of a long leash, whacking Francis’s legs with his furiously wagging tail as he paused to sniff something or other. 

“Just like back in Boy Scouts, eh?” said James, straddling a boulder. Francis noted that he was hardly out of breath, despite both being the trailblazer and singing loudly enough to rouse any nocturnal creature that might be daring to sleep in the moors. 

“Maybe we will have a chance to practice tying some knots. Or, ah, whittling.” John lowered himself onto a large, flat rock, red-faced and wheezing. “Were you ever in the Boy Scouts, Francis?”

“For a year or two, yes.” 

“Excellent!” said James. “We’ll have to exchange stories.”

Francis grunted in response. He did not have fond memories of that time. 

He then stood abruptly as Neptune seemingly decided that the ideal place to do his business was beside the very rock that Francis had chosen to sit on. 

“You hairy son of a—”

James laughed. “You aren’t very fond of Francis, are you, Neptune? Good boy.”

“Maybe you should hire him in my stead,” said Francis, attempting not to sound as petulant as he felt.

“He would be wonderful for morale,” John mused. “If nothing else, he is the superior foot-warmer. But of course we would never think of replacing you, Francis.”

Attempting a smile (probably it better resembled a grimace), Francis fished for his phone in his pocket. Assuming there was service, he would have a barrage of texts from Sophia waiting for him. To his relief, there were only two:

 

Sophia: are all of you still intact?

Sophia: how about your sanity??

 

“Is there reception?” asked James.

Francis nodded, typing out a response:

 

Francis: For the first question: affirmative. Not sure about the second.

 

James began to mumble something about taking a group selfie, but seemed to think better of it. Meanwhile, John distributed sandwiches from a tupperware container. 

“Courtesy of Jane,” he pronounced.

They ate in relative silence, punctuated only by the rustling of napkins. The moors around them, however, were alive with sound. Birdsong filled the air, and a steady wind rustled the tall grasses. If Francis wasn’t so keenly aware of the blisters forming on his heels and the cold dampness of sweat-doused fabric against his skin and fact that he was mere feet away from the two most consistently irritating presences in his life, he might have found it peaceful. 

“How much farther to the campsite?” asked Francis after some time.

“Ah,” said John, frowning. “Now, there is no campsite, _per se_. But there is a creek not far from here, and I thought we might pitch our tents by its banks. I’m no orienteer, but I would say we have six miles left to hike, give or take.”  He smiled, throat bobbing nervously.

“God have mercy,” muttered Francis. 

“I highly doubt we will need His help. What could possibly become of us here, of all places?” asked John. 

“Yes, Francis, don’t be a wet blanket,” said James. “As John said before—we’re off on the adventure of a lifetime.”

Francis thought that only someone in the throes of a dire midlife crisis could consider a weekend camping holiday with their middle-aged coworkers an “adventure of a lifetime.” He was, therefore, not surprised when John nodded his enthusiastic agreement. 

Although, he realized, reaching for his flask, he may very well fit that description himself. He smothered a wry smile as they began to re-pack the leftovers and prepare for the next leg of their journey. 


	3. If All Your Friends Jumped Into a River...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Neptune, a very good boy who deserved better.

If Francis had ever had any modicum of appreciation for nature, hiking with John and James would surely be enough to destroy it. It brought out the worst in both of them. For instance, John, who had purchased a guide on bird identification and now fancied himself an ornithologist, insisted on fumblingly attempting to identify each species they saw—usually, he was forced to stop and consult his guide at length while James and Francis waited.

“What do you think are the odds it's another bloody sparrow?” muttered James after the tenth or maybe eleventh stop. 

Francis noted with some small satisfaction that James was beginning to look as disheveled as Francis felt. There were several small twigs tangled in his hair, his dirt-smudged shirt was coming untucked, and the beginnings of a nasty rash crept up his legs. He deserved nothing less for wearing shorts. It wasn't as if he had anything to show off (thought Francis, somewhat stubbornly.) 

Not that any of this prevented James from performing his entire repertoire of self-aggrandizing stories as they walked along. 

“And so there I was, trying to keep my head above water and hoping that help would come before either Tommy or I drowned. All I could do was keep treading water and praying he was still alive. It took a whole ten minutes for anyone to spot us. When they finally dragged us to shore, my first words were, ‘I’ll be fine. But for the love of God, men, somebody make sure Tommy is still breathing!’ Well, we were both battered, but we were no worse for wear. I was given a ceremonial cup for my efforts—silver, with my name on a plaque—not to mention a free pass for future visits.” James shook his head with a wry smile. “But of course not even that could convince be to come back to Waterworld.”

“I have never trusted wave pools,” said John. “I cannot believe they are deemed safe enough for anymore, much less children. You must have been very brave, James.”

“There was no bravery involved,” said James. “I acted on instinct alone. And when they interviewed me for a news segment on BBC, that’s exactly what I said—I’m not hero. I did what anyone would in that situation.”

Francis cut in, feeling his blood pressure rising with every word. “Why don’t you tell us about the time you rescued a golf ball from a water hazard, James? That’s a capital story. Did the BBC interview you after that one, too?”

“Well, Francis, I—” James frowned, faltered, lost his footing, and almost tripped over Neptune, who had clung to James like a shadow since morning. 

John cleared his throat, attempting a smile. “Would either of you gentlemen like some trail mix? I would recommend the, ah—” 

It was then that Neptune darted forward—they never would find out John's recommendation, more's the pity—and dragged John, who gripped the end of the leash, with him. He skidded along the wet grass for a few meters, and then slid on his bottom down a steep hill, mouth agape in wordless shock. 

“Oh, for the love of—” began Francis. 

Before he could even attempt to express his utter exasperation with the situation, he heard John shout for help. 

James was off running in a heartbeat, and Francis was forced to jog along behind him, huffing from the type of exertion he hadn’t experienced since reaching middle age. From the top of the hill, he found himself looking down at a swift river, John’s white face bobbing above the dark water. Neptune paced by the side of the stream, unharmed, barking at the water that had so viciously attacked his owner. 

“Well, go on,” urged Francis in response to James’s look of horror.

James shook his head, face blanched. “I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I haven’t so much as gone in an overfilled bathtub since I was fourteen," his voice was tight, and Francis felt a bitter laugh rising in his throat. "I nearly drowned in a bloody wave pool; do you really think I escaped that untouched?”

Francis would have laughed until his sides ached if there had been time. Instead he clumsily deposited his backpack at James’s feet and stumbled down the hill, desperately hoping he wouldn’t drown while James Fitzjames, hero of Waterworld, stood quaking in his £200 hiking boots. 

He jumped in before he could remind himself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. The water was shockingly cold, and the current was stronger than he had imagined. As the water roared around him, he searched for some sign of John’s graying head or his lurid yellow Hawaiian shirt. He was blinded by the spray of water as it crashed against the rocky banks on either side. Why hadn’t he just thrown down a bloody rope? Disoriented, he tread water, scanning the surface, which was blackening as the sun set overhead. 

“There!”

It was James’s voice, and Francis turned his head to see him pointing to a spot just to his left. Awkwardly, Francis fought against the tide and swam until he managed to grab a hold of the back of John’s shirt, dragging John toward him. John let out a sputtering gasp, and Francis felt a pang of relief. As often a he felt compelled to kill the man, he could think of nothing worse than John Franklin dying. 

“James!” called Francis. “Throw us a rope!”

“What rope? The rope we brought in case someone fell in a damned river?”

“Give me you hand, then. Hurry!”

A few seconds later, he felt James's hand close around his wrist, and the toilsome work of dragging John, utterly useless in his present state, to the bank began. The worst of it was over, at least, but that was not to say that things were not significantly more pleasant on the other side. 

By the time all three of them were safely on solid ground, they were all thoroughly soaked. John had the worst of it—he spent a full minute coughing up water—but even James had been splattered from head to toe, and had managed to slip into the water himself at one point, cutting his leg on a sharp rock as he fell. But the greatest disaster was the loss of John’s backpack, which they had all helplessly watched as it was carried downstream. It had contained—so John lamented—all of the costumes he had brought for skits around the campfire, and, more crucially, the vast majority of their food.

As they sat shivering around a campfire, poking it at intervals with sticks to keep it alive, their wet clothes drying out on rocks, they took stock of their remaining food.

“Two cans of baked beans,” said James, running a hand through his damp hair. He had changed into a cream-colored sweater that Francis suspected was cashmere, which was bad enough, but, worse yet, John had donned a matching one. The second-hand embarrassment made Francis grimace. “Half an egg salad sandwich. A bag of marshmallows. Two king-sized bars of chocolate. Half a package of graham crackers.”

“Well,” said John, setting back his shoulders with the air of an intrepid explorer. “We certainly won’t starve.”

“I wasn’t aware anyone was suggesting that,” said Francis. 

The fire had sputtered out again, and he stirred the coals with one end of a tent pole. Neptune leaped back, barking, from his station at James’s feet when the kindling took and flames shot up. Francis glared at him, then sighed. 

“We ought to turn back tomorrow,” Francis continued. “Even if we do find a way to cross the river, I don’t like the idea of getting lost in the moors on the other side with limited supplies. How do we know we’re even going in the right direction? Do we have a compass?”

Franklin’s smile wobbled. James looked at his shoes. 

“We don’t have a compass, then. So we’re navigating with no landmarks to speak of, and with no way of gauging where we actually are? You said, John, that we would find a stream in six miles. We walked at least ten this afternoon, only to find a river—” 

“Francis,” John said firmly, “there is no need to be so alarmist. We may find ourselves with a bit of an adventure on our hands, but what harm is there in that? We are in a national park. It’s hardly as if we are off in—” John gestured vaguely, thinking, “—off in some barren Arctic wasteland, now are we?”

“We may not be, but I wouldn’t advise—”

John cut him off with a disapproving look. “Please, Francis. I have successfully run Erebus Enterprises for well over a decade. I am sure I can manage to supervise a camping weekend without your assistance.”

Francis took a deep breath, trying to smother his irritation. He knew that tone well, and it meant that John would not accept any alternative—any attempt at a counter-argument would be taken as a personal affront. These sorts of clashes had more or less defined Francis and John’s working relationship over the past ten years.

“On that note,” said John, rising, “I intend to go to sleep. Early to bed, early to rise.” He paused, halfway to his tent. “We have a busy day ahead of us, gentlemen. Don’t think for a minute that this… minor incident will in any way interfere with our plans. There is plenty of fun in store yet.”

"Hear, hear," said James, voice weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to update adsdajs I have every intention to finish this story, but life got in the way. Hoping to get the next chapter up by the start of next week!


	4. Melodrama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author gets tired of Sir John cockblocking their character development so has him stay conked out in a tent for an entire chapter.

For some time after John left, Francis and James sat in relative silence, making occasional attempts to coax the dying fire back to life. Francis had started drinking almost immediately (after all, he reasoned, anyone would drink after a day like this), and each time they tried and failed to stoke the fire, he swore increasingly vehemently. Meanwhile James smiled wanly at their failed efforts and nibbled on semi-stale marshmallows.

Francis realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he and James had been alone together, before this morning. When had they last interacted outside of the context of a meeting? Six years ago, when Francis had conducted his phone interview? No, they had sniped at each other in the break room waiting for their tea to steep plenty of times. And once James had cornered him after a meeting to accuse him of stealing sixteen legal pads from his office—which he had, out of spite, because James was forever dipping into his own office supplies. But the fact remained that he didn’t know who James was when John was removed from the equation. 

Still an arrogant prick, probably.  

It wasn’t until John’s snores broke through the silence that James spoke, voice uncharacteristically soft. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

Francis looked up, taken aback. “What?”

“About Waterworld.” James grimaced. “He still thinks of me as a hero.” 

“Ah, well,” said Francis, shifting. “That’s John’s problem, isn’t it.”

James pulled a face that might have started as a smile but certainly ended as a scowl. For someone who seemed to tailor his every word and every action toward solidifying his position as Erebus Enterprise's golden boy, he was surprisingly unrestrained in his facial expressions.  “You’re not easy to like, Francis. In fact, you’re sort of an arsehole. But I’ve always thought of you as a friend. I don’t—I don’t suppose you know that, do you?”

There were, quite literally, crickets. And probably a few frogs, but Francis wasn't well enough acquainted with forest life to tell the difference. 

Finally Francis groaned, rubbing his temples. “Oh, God, James. How do I respond to that?” 

The truth was that James was a posh, lisping, brown-nosing blowhole, and that Francis was as jealous of him as he was disgusted by him. Ever since he had been hired on, Francis had been aware that he would never be able to compete—not that he wanted to, particularly. If becoming John’s favorite included agreeing with even the most short-sighted of his ideas and not just tactfully ignoring but going so far as to  _ compliment _ John’s Crocs (which he ostensibly wore for orthopedic purposes), he wanted no part in it. But he still felt a lingering sense of inferiority when compared to him. He was like James Ross, who stood predominantly in Francis's mind as the person who had turned down his invitation to senior prom (something that Francis still agonized over late a night). But before that shitshow, they had been friends, or maybe rivals, or something between the two. James Ross was insufferable, made worse by the fact that no one besides Francis saw beyond his veneer of ambition and confidence, made even worse by the fact that Francis couldn’t entirely bring himself to hate him.

He was relieved when James finally reached for his phone, and muttered something about walking around to try to find service. Francis waited for him to disappear into the trees before he allowed himself to mutter a prayer of thanks to whatever deity, if there was any, had delivered him from the most uncomfortable conversation of his life. There were only so many ways to tell as man that you mostly despised him, for person reasons that you had no interest in examining, ever. 

Francis found his own phone, wondering if any texts from Sophia had made their way to him in the last few eventful hours. No such luck. He thought of her sitting alone at her apartment, pounding out another series of texts, possibly some of them to Jane, who must be just as worried, if not more, than her niece. He wondered what she would say if he told her that her uncle had fallen into a river. Maybe it was for the best that Sofia remained in the dark until they all made it home intact, assuming they ever did. Considering their luck so far, their prospects were grim. 

James returned ten minutes later, shaking his head. 

“Nothing?” Francis asked.

“Nothing. Sophia will have my head.”

“Sophia Cracroft?”

"You know her?” he asked.

Francis almost laughed. “I proposed to her. Twice. I’m surprised John hasn’t told you. It’s as open a secret as... as every workplace relationship involving Cornelius Hickey and ending in the involvement of the HR department.” (There was some workplace gossip that was impossible to avoid.) He shook his head, smiling bitterly as he raised his flask to his lips. “Did she ask you to look after John, too?”

“Something like that, yes,” said James. His brow was creased as he swiped desperately at his phone screen, as if this would somehow summon a cell tower to them. “John really should fire Hickey," he muttered. "He’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Can you believe that man hired him as a bloody dog sitter?”

“John said he had references.”

“What bloody references?” Francis snorted. “I wouldn’t trust that rat-faced bastard to take care of a goldfish.”

James ignored this comment, which was probably wise. Francis felt the whiskey pulling at his inhibitions, and knew full well that if he carried on this way he would end up saying something biting about one of the people at the company who James was friendly with, and find himself entangled in some sort of Game Of Thrones style network of workplace alliances. He might have had patience for that sort of petty game when he was younger, but now he knew better than to engage with it. At least, when he was sober.

“Why twice?” asked James, abruptly. 

“What?” _ Sophia _ , he remembered. He tried for a joke, and mostly failed. “Because she said no the first time.”

“I suppose. Wasn’t she dating James Ross the first time?”

Francis raised his eyebrows. “So, John did tell you.”

James finally set down his phone, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m not—I don’t mean to be intrusive. It's just that we've worked together for years, and still I don’t really know you, Francis. I don’t know anything about you.”

There was an earnestness in his voice that Francis wasn’t accustomed to hearing, except for the rare occasions on which he had suffered through listening to James giving John style advice. He averted his eyes. 

“And so the best way to remedy that is by asking about my failed love life,” he said, not making much of an effort to cover his annoyance. 

“Well,” said James, which was maybe as close to an admission of wrongdoing as he could muster. 

They might have said more, and suffered through even more painfully awkward conversation, if the elements hadn’t decided to intervene. Namely, it started hailing. The first hailstone, the size of a golf ball, fell about two inches from Francis’s foot. Neptune sniffed at it and growled. 

“It’s November,” said James, squinting up at the sky as if personally affronted.

“Yes, well, Mother Nature doesn’t give a damn, James.”

A second hailstone landed directly atop their poor excuse for a campfire, sending sparks flying. James looked down at it, blinking. “Apparently not.” 

It didn’t take long to occur to them that they should head for the tents, but they paused when they stood outside John’s tent, the sound of snoring still clearly audible above the smacking of hail against the grass. They exchanged a glance, and Francis sighed. 

“We ought to make sure he doesn’t get a concussion,” said James. “Or worse.”

Francis could picture a hailstone falling through the tent onto a sleeping John's forehead, leaving him with even fewer undamaged brain cells than before. And the old man would sleep through it, of course. 

“I wouldn’t put anything past him. He did hire—”

“Please don’t bring up Hickey again. We’ve discussed this already.”

“He must have faked his references. I doubt he’s qualified to have his day job either.”

“It’s not as if I’m trying to defend him.”

“Who, John or Hickey?”

“Hickey. What would I need to defend John for?” James yanked down the zipper of the tent. “Don’t bloody answer that question.”

And so three men and a dog found themselves in a tent made for one. Even as they placed a pillow of John’s head as a sort of makeshift helmet, he didn’t so much as stir. Several hours later, Francis woke to the sound of John and James snoring in unison, and to the sensation of cold air on his skin. He looked up at the gaping hole in the fabric of the tent, and then at the hailstone perfectly balanced atop the pillow on John’s face, and longed to be out of this hellhole as quickly as possible.


	5. Bear-ly Tolerable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the lads bitch at each other, Francis briefly enjoys nature, and the author makes a few too many meta jokes. (So it's more or less the same as every other chapter so far.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitch, bet you thought you'd seen the last of this fic! 
> 
> In all seriousness I'm sorry for taking so long to update, I am planning on finishing this but life (read: being possessed by Irving/Hickey and having to perform a 10k word exorcism on myself) got in the way. Chapter six will hopefully be up much more quickly!

When Francis at last worked up the willpower to leave the tent, Neptune following at his heels, he realized that the situation was even worse than he had suspected. Essentially, the campsite looked the way Francis’s head felt the morning after a late night at a pub. One of the tents had blown away and was lying, crumpled, half-submerged in the river. The other was in better condition, but one of the tent poles had been struck by a piece of hail and snapped, buckling inward and leaving the tent crippled. They might have been able to repair them with some time and a roll of duct tape, but they would only be sleeping rough one more night before they were on their way back home to proper roofs and tolerable company. All in all, it wasn’t worth the hassle. 

Bizarrely, the camping stove was overturned. Frowning, Francis came forward to inspect it, wondering how the hell a hailstorm could tip over what was essentially a stout metal box. The surface was marred by dents and nicks, which he expected, but what he did not expect was the three long, deep marks running down the side.  _ Claw marks _ , he wanted to say, but that was almost too absurd. The last thing they needed was to find that a wild animal had stumbled upon their campsite—in the middle of a storm, no less—and lain waste to their supplies. He should see if it had gotten into their food. That much he could stand, if it was the case, but if the animal had somehow done anything to his whiskey supply, he would find the thing and shoot it himself. He weighed his flask, half-full, in his hand, and thought of the remaining three-quarters bottle in his backpack. 

Oddly enough, his and James’s backpacks, and the food within them, were untouched, but Francis wouldn’t complain about that. Maybe the overpowering smell of James's shampoo, which clung to all of his belongings as far as Francis could tell, had driven the animal off. 

He returned to the remaining intact tent to find James (speak of the Devil) standing just outside, bleary-eyed and bed-headed, eyes screwed up against the early morning sun.

“Did you see them?" he asked. 

“The what?”

“The tracks.” He jerked his chin downward. Paw prints, rather larger in width than Francis’s hand with the fingers splayed, were faintly visible in the mud. “All around the tent. I imagine it must have circled us last night.”

James’s lips twitched when he said this, maybe in disbelief. There was something not quite frightening, but disconcerting about having been so close to a wild animal in the middle of the night, even if it hadn’t done them any harm. 

"A bear, maybe. Thomas would know," said Francis, examining the shape of the prints. 

"Christ."

“You ought to sing,” Francis suggested. “If it’s still within range to hear you, that should drive it away for good.”

“Speak for yourself, old man. You won’t be drawing crowds to the Royal Opera House anytime soon.”

Francis huffed, more upset at being called “old man” than anything else. “Fire away, James. I don't make pretenses about my abilities, unlike some people I might mention.”

“No. No, you don’t.” James glanced over his shoulder, momentarily distracted by the shuffling sounds that indicated John was waking up. “You’re not proud of many things, are you?”

With that, James set off to look for firewood, or something of that nature, leaving Francis to ponder what the hell it was that made them incapable of having a five minute conversation without descending into exchanging personal insults. 

John emerged a minute later, bristling with anger. “If I am forced to listen to the two of you squabbling one more time, then I will…” He paused, seemingly unable to think of a proper threat. Francis waited for a few seconds, and when no follow-up came, he informed John of the situation.

“Some sort of wild animal came by last night,” said Francis, pointing to the tracks. "It may have been a bear."

“Well,” said John. “That is certainly disconcerting for us city folk who are unused to these kinds of things, but it isn’t as if that creature can do us any harm.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure—”

“Please, Francis. I’ve had quite enough of your pessimism. At least pretend you don’t mind being here.”

This would ordinarily have been enough to set Francis off, but he was still smarting from his exchange with James. He was aware of how he must have seemed to the others—obstinate, irritable, and a remorseless drunkard to boot. It wasn’t as if anything could be done about his reputation after having worked with them for so many years, but at least he could hold his tongue from time to time to make this trip easier on all three of them.

“I  _ don’t _ mind being here,” he said. “I only wish we weren’t facing so many setbacks.”

“There are no such things as setbacks. Only opportunities for us to rise above our circumstances.”

Francis did not find that line of thought convincing.

When they had eaten and dressed, and packed up their supplies, they once again faced the challenge of crossing the river. Francis had privately hoped that John might come to his senses overnight and decide to turn back, but he knew there was little chance of that. And he was right—John continued to be adamant that they turn this river into an opportunity to succeed. Succeed at drowning, most likely.  

They split up, Francis following the river to the west and John, James, and Neptune to the east, looking for any sign of the river narrowing, or of a fallen tree trunk to use as a bridge, or of rocks that could serve as stepping stones. He was thankful for the time alone, although it was several minutes before he was far enough from John and James that their voices didn’t carry:

“...during the holiday party, when Stephen Stanley accidentally set fire to the  curtains, and  _ naturally _ there was no fire extinguisher…”

“...I am convinced the food in the cafeteria is poisoned. You would never believe what I found in my salad last week…”

“...and so I had to explain to him—David Young, I believe, was his name—very firmly that ‘ _ those’  _ were, in fact, my Crocs, and that I wear them on the recommendation of my podiatrist. Needless to say, that was one intern I did not invite to return the following summer…”

And at last, the closest thing to peace Francis had felt since he left his flat the morning before. The only sounds were those of nature: the rushing of water, the cawing of birds, the sound of Francis swearing as he lost his footing time and time again on the muddy banks.

It was now clear to him that he never should have agreed to come. John could fire him, for all he cared. It was bad enough that he spent well over half of his waking hours making pained small talk with them, exchanging passive-aggressive emails with them, half-dozing his way through unnecessary meetings with them. If they hadn’t bonded over the past six years (and they hadn’t), a camping weekend wouldn’t make any difference. 

An hour passed with no sign of a means of crossing, and with each step Francis grew more self-righteous, though not convinced that the overwhelming evidence against the plan would convince John to abandon it. At the end of the hour he turned around, as previously agreed, to meet the other two men (and the dog) back at last night’s campsite. If John, God forbid, proposed they swim across, Francis vowed to head back on his own, personal loyalty be damned.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), John and James had already returned when by the time Francis got back. They were smiling rather than somber, but Francis knew better than to assume that meant anything one way or the other. 

“John found our Northwest Passage,” James announced as he arrived, grinning. 

“What?”

“Please, James,” said John, attempting to frown but nevertheless looking very pleased with himself. “I think I’ve found a crossing point.” 

John and James proceeded to get a detailed description of a point some twenty minutes to the east where the river could theoretically be transversed by stepping on a series of stones. Francis had his doubts, but didn’t voice them. And so they set off, Neptune in the lead.

As they walked, Francis planned what he would say to Sophia if John broke his leg trying to scramble across slick rocks. 

He thought back to his first date with Sophia, back when they had met at Platypus Pond. After Francis spent weeks trying, and, as far as he could tell, failing, to drop hints that he was interested in her, Sophia finally asked him out. They had spent hours at the London Zoo, wandering through the exhibits and exchanging jokes, until they reached Sophia’s favorite—Platypus Pond. They didn’t see a single platypus, but she did kiss him on the cheek, which had counted for something back then. He wondered what he would have thought, then, if he could see himself as he was now, trousers smeared with mud from tripping on the muddy banks, jacket still damp from the night before, vainly wishing for something—anything—to to spare him from the torment to come. And he had thought work ice cream socials were hell on Earth.  

Before long, they stood on the banks of the river, where a few sharp stones jutted out of the water like blackened teeth. 

“We’ll be like Caesar crossing the Rubicon,” said James, clapping John on the shoulder.

“Like Washington crossing the Delaware,” said John.

Francis couldn't believe his bloody ears, although he shouldn't have expected anything less. 

“Like Tommy crossing the wave pool at Waterworld,” added Francis.

James glared at him. “For Christ’s sakes, Francis.”


End file.
